The dead man in the velvet suit was still smiling.
Faye Blake didn't flinch as she stepped over the body, stilettos clicking against marble like punctuation marks. The gala behind her pulsed on—the cello's low hum, champagne flutes clinking like promises, and the hum of old money lying through diamond teeth. No one screamed. Not yet. That was the dance of high-society crime: see no evil, speak no scandal, wait for the headlines to sanitize it all.
She crouched beside the corpse, red trench coat flaring like a warning shot, and pulled a silver cigarette case from her boot. Not for a smoke—for the encrypted drive inside, tiny and damning.
Click.
She slid it beneath the cuff of the corpse's designer sleeve.
Plant the intel. Let the media feast. Let the syndicate sweat.
Her work here was done.
At least for tonight.
"Still have a flair for drama, I see."
The voice came from behind, smooth and smug like a fingerprint on a crystal glass.
Faye didn't turn. She didn't need to.
That scent—government-grade cologne and ego—was unforgettable.
Ronan Vale.
Of course it was him.
She straightened slowly, eyes sharp as switchblades, lips curling like smoke. "Didn't think they'd send you," she said without looking. "Thought the agency kept its ghosts in cages."
"Only when we misbehave."He stepped into the light, tailored midnight suit stitched to sin, and a glint of metal beneath his lapel—a hidden holster, as always. "But I behave… strategically."
Faye's gaze finally met his. Two sparks, one storm.
Same damn smirk. Same jawline sharpened by silence. Same mouth she regretted kissing in a Berlin hotel room three years and one betrayal ago.
"Don't flirt," she said, brushing past him.
"Wasn't," he replied, matching her pace, tone casual. "I only flirt with people I trust."
"Then you must be very lonely."
He chuckled, low and maddening.
"Only when I remember that you exist."
Across the room, behind a mirrored panel of one-way glass, Dominic Hart watched the pair through tinted lenses. He didn't speak. Didn't blink. He just studied.
Faye's stride. Ronan's restraint. The body. The timing.
Everything about this felt… rehearsed.
"She got to the scene before us," Calla Vane murmured at his side, arms crossed over her matte grey blazer, tablet blinking with heat scans. "Planted something. Looked like a drive."
Dominic didn't respond immediately.
Instead, he spoke into the comms on his wrist, voice flat and quiet.
"Track the server pings. Sweep her digital footprint. If she's baiting the press, she's not working solo."
Calla gave him a sidelong glance.
"You think she's working with Vale?"
Dominic's jaw flexed.
"I think Vale's pretending not to remember how she left him bleeding in Paris."
Outside the ballroom, in the underground service corridor tangled with steam and secrets, Juno Reyes tapped his keyboard like a sniper pulls a trigger.
"You're welcome, Red," he muttered into his mic, gum popping between syllables. "Party cams are looped. Thermal blocked. You've got five minutes until Daddy Vale and the Ice Queen start crawling up your ass."
Faye's voice crackled back in her ear.
"Remind me to name my first-born after you."
"Only if it's a cat," Juno smirked. "Or a drone."
Back in the ballroom, Faye and Ronan moved side by side now—an unholy alliance in silk and steel. They weren't partners. Not anymore. But tonight, they were something worse.
Co-conspirators.Memories.Warnings.
"Same old game," Ronan said under his breath, scanning the exits.
Faye smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"No, darling," she whispered. "This time, we're both the targets."
END OF CHAPTER ONE: FIRST SHOT